And your flowing gowns cover your sins and your suits,
Who says that yours isn't a right royal sport,
When it's known that you all make your fortunes at Court?
5. France in a state of spontaneous combustion.
Through air as
dark as
dirty muslin,
Duke of Guys.
The city people
go
a-guzzlin.
France is a powder magazine,
A sort of foreign infernal machine—
A barrel of brimstone, of odour ambrosian,